


Crimes and Misconceptions

by marshmallowtasha



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Veronica Mars Holiday Gift Exchange 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:09:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshmallowtasha/pseuds/marshmallowtasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweaty jogging Logan, sexy jogging Veronica, a dog and a high school gym. This is what you get when you throw 4 prompts in a blender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crimes and Misconceptions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inmyfashion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmyfashion/gifts).



> The wonderfully fabulous Darlinginmyway provided me with 4 intriguing prompts, and somehow, my blender of a brain mixed them all up and this is the result. 
> 
> Darlinginmyway, your fics inspire me to be better when I try and write, and I hope that even though I didn't focus on one particular prompt, you see something that you like in here. I wish you the happiest of holidays and a new year filled with everything that you need and want. xox
> 
> Prompts:
> 
> 1) we are locked in school on a Friday night due to a snowstorm and I’m stuck in this classroom with you au
> 
> 2) We pass each other every day while walking our dogs and I’ve known that your dog is named Butch for six months but I can’t seem to work up the nerve to ask YOUR name, but today I at least managed to find the courage to ask why the heck your dog is named Butch AU
> 
> 3) Dialogue prompt: “Why are you in my kitchen dressed as a hooker?”
> 
> 4) “I - you know, it’s a long story.”

Logan parks his convertible in his allocated space for the first time in nearly eight months. He pauses before getting out and sighs deeply, drinking in the long sought- after silence for just a moment.

_Home. Finally._

The parking garage smells of rancid gas fumes and mildew, but nothing in recent memory has ever smelled sweeter. Logan looks around and makes a mental note of the differences since he left. The hoarders in apartment three have crammed at least four feet more stuff into their parking spot. Someone seems to have finally moved into apartment twelve, because there’s a silver SUV parked in that spot now. And Old Mrs. Wilson next door apparently got a new car. Logan shakes his head, because Old Mrs. Wilson probably shouldn’t even be driving anymore.

Logan grabs his hat from the passenger seat and reaches for the door handle. Just before he throws open the door, he glimpses a small, blond woman in the side view mirror wearing tall black boots, jeans and a leather trench, coming out of the stairwell carrying an overnight bag and walking over to the car in Mrs. Wilson’s spot. The lights blink and the car tweets as she unlocks the doors and gets in.

_Well, well, well. That sure isn’t Old Mrs. Wilson._ A slow smile grows on his face. _It certainly is good to be home._

 

Veronica slams the door shut on her convertible, dumps her bag on the passenger seat and inserts the key into the ignition. When she looks into her rearview mirror as she starts to back up her car, she notices the dark blue Mercedes parked in the spot directly across the aisle from hers.

_Damn it! What’s a car doing there? I just got used to getting my car in and out of this damn parking space._

It has only been about a month since Veronica moved into her apartment, and as much as she likes the building and the neighbourhood, the parking garage has been her one frustration. The lane running down the middle barely clears two cars side by side, and a giant cement post borders her spot. Learning to get her Le Baron boat in and out has been a game of inches and three-point turns. Her saving grace _had_ been the fact that the spot across from hers has so far been empty. Now it seems that whoever owns it has returned to claim it. With a Mercedes, no less. So now she has to be extra careful to not only not hit the car, but to not hit a car that’s worth more than she’s made in the last year. _Fan-freaking-tastic_.

Veronica inches back, turns her wheel, advances, and repeats about twenty times before she’s able to clear the post. On her last attempt, she realizes that the driver has been sitting in the car watching her. She can just see the reflection of his eyes in the rear view and the shake of his shoulders as he laughs at her fumbling. _Jackass_ , she thinks as she finally gets free and drives out.

* * *

It’s not one of Veronica’s most winning domestic moments. But really, what else could she have done under the circumstances? The lead on the scumbag who wasn’t paying his child support payments came the day _before_ garbage day. Besides, she hadn’t meant to be gone five days.

She walks over to the living room window and throws it open to air out the rotting garbage smell that permeates her apartment.

_Untz untz untz untz…_

“What the hell is that?” she growls to Butch, the bulldog sleeping on the rug in front of the couch. Annoying techno music is blaring in through her window. In the month that she’s lived here, never once did she complain about the noise from her neighbours. But then again, never had any of the neighbours played aggravating music outside her window either. Veronica pulls back the curtain and scans the area, pinpointing the source of the offending sound as the yard next door.

There’s a metal parallel bar that was not there before she left peeking over the top of the fence. Veronica can just see a tan set of knees — attached to well muscled thighs no less — hooked over the bar, swinging slightly. Apparently, her until-now silent neighbour has questionable taste in music. Veronica hopes that his workout is nearly done, because she has no alternative but to leave the window open. Just before she turns away, she sees the knees flip off the bar and hands grasp it instead. A head with ultra-short hair pops into view followed by glistening, mountainous slopes that double as this guy’s shoulders.

_Oh my._

Veronica grins and surreptitiously watches as the new Adonis next door finishes his reps. She realizes three reps in that this is the guy with the fancy car who had been laughing at her the other day. Now annoyed as well as turned on, she tries for a second time to turn away, but his next movements pin her to the floor, mouth slightly open, eyes glazing over.

 

Logan reaches his eighth chin up when he sees a flash of blond hair in the window next door. He can’t help the flare of exhilaration he feels, and uses it to boost his last two reps and to add five more. Not that’s he’s trying to impress her or anything; it’s just Navy standard to stay in shape, that’s all. He lowers his feet to the ground and grabs his towel, wiping the sweat from his face. A quick glance to the side shows that she’s still watching. Smirking into his towel, Logan decides that if she’s going to watch, he’ll really give her something to see.

_Nothing sexier than a guy who can dance, right?_ Logan thinks to himself.

Grabbing the pole closest to him, he spins around and arches himself back, springing up immediately and thrusting his hips in time to the music. He does a few more spins and thrusts, using his hands to accentuate his washboard abs and narrow hips. Logan makes a mental note to thank Nails tomorrow for forcing that stupid movie on him. Apparently, he’d actually learned something, if the frozen hottie with the mouth hanging open is any indication. The rhythmic beats die out, and he thrusts and spins one last time. Logan reaches for his towel and struts into his house without looking back.

* * *

 

Later that week, Veronica runs down the sidewalk covered in sweat, at the end of her morning run. The pace of her ponytail bobbing up and down gives no indication of weariness despite the fact that she’s been running for the better part of an hour. Were anyone close enough, they would hear the rhythmic beat of the music piping through her ear buds, and were those people to actually know her well enough, they would be shocked at her musical choice. A playlist full of fast paced indie rock is Veronica’s normal fare during a workout, something she can mumble the lyrics to while she zones out. But it’s been impossible to rid herself of the techno beat earworm she’s had the last few days. _If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em_. Much to her surprise, though, her pace has picked up with the change.

She can see her apartment building roof just over the trees at the end of the block, so she slows to start her cool down. Stepping over to her regular bench for support, she lifts her right foot to her ass, stretching her thigh. Despite her attempt to cool down, her heartbeat picks back up when she sees the new guy jogging towards her. Ever since she’d seen his backyard performance, she’s been hard pressed to imagine anyone else during those dark nights in bed. She’s never seen anyone move like that since, well, since Mac had dragged her to Goliath’s that one time for Parker’s hen party.   It’s no surprise, really, that he makes enough to afford a nice apartment and a Mercedes. He’s hot as hell and can move like a cat. The women must be throwing twenties into his thong by the handful. She wonders idly if she could ever actually be with a guy who strips for a living, and is disappointed to admit that she has never been very good at sharing her toys. Still, that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the show.

Never one to be shy and sure that he’s used to being stared at, she takes the opportunity of his long approach to notice all the benefits of him having no shirt on. She weighs his military style haircut against the dog tags bouncing in time with his stride, and admires his apparent commitment to his character selection. The nature of Veronica’s own job causes her to own a fair amount of costumes, but she doesn’t generally let them seep into her everyday wear. _Maybe he’s actually military_ , she wonders to herself, but then dismisses the thought. There’s no way he could move like _that_ and not be a professional.

The chiseled abs come into focus as he approaches, as do the slightly trembling pectoral muscles that ripple to the rhythm of the music in her ears. He’s almost run right by her before she tears her gaze away from his middle to meet his eyes. He raises an eyebrow indicating that he knows exactly what she’s thinking, smirks and winks, and then she can see nothing of him but his exquisitely toned back. She makes a small moue of disappointment when she notices that his ass is nowhere to be seen. _Oh well_ , she shrugs to herself. _Can’t have everything_.

* * *

Logan begins to look forward to his morning runs. When he isn’t deployed, he relishes running on ground that doesn’t sway with the ocean tides. But it doesn’t hurt either that the hot new girl frequently likes to take her morning jog with her bulldog at around the same time. When Logan has the luxury to still be home late in the mornings – it’s sad that oh-eight hundred is late for him now – he can usually hear her leaving, the dog’s nails clicking loudly on the flagstones. He gives her about a thirty-minute head start so that he can pass her on her way back home.

The day after first contact, he sees her running up from the beach, clutching her running shoes. In response to her inspection of him the day before, he stops and pretends that he’s taking his heart rate, but makes sure she notices him checking her out slowly, from sandy feet to sweaty brow. She rolls her eyes at him as she runs past, but he’s pretty sure she adds a small sway to her hips as she jogs away.

The following day he leaves earlier than she does, but catches her jogging about a block behind him for the entirety of his route. He’s impressed that she can keep up to his military pace and smiles appreciatively at her when they cross in the hall on their way back to their respective apartments. She returns his smile with a small nod and wave before she disappears through her door.

They haven’t really done more than nod and smile at each other, but Logan is under no illusions about the impression he makes, shirtless and sweaty, dog tags swaying. There is some definite non-verbal flirting going on, and he’s disappointed on the days when he doesn’t see her.

The first time they speak, he comes upon her stretching at the bottom of the front stairs of their building on his way back from his run. Her dog is rooting around in the nearby bushes, and she’s tugging his leash and calling his name to get him to stop digging. Logan stops and bends down to the dog, knuckles outstretched. “Are you giving your mommy a hard time, Butch?” Logan asks the dog, scratching him behind the ears. The dog bumps the offered hand with his nose and licks Logan’s wrist. Logan straightens and turns to the blond girl holding the leash, hands on her hips, annoyed look on her face. He smirks sarcastically. “Not sure you picked the right name for your dog. Isn’t “Butch” supposed to be growlier with lots of bared teeth?”

She yanks the leash again and answers, “Normally he is. I’m not sure what kind of magic you’re using on him.”

“Just my natural animal magnetism.”

She groans and snaps at the dog, “Butch, let’s go,” before running off. Logan is sure she is trying to hide a smile though. She seems feisty. He likes that.

Since that first exchange, Logan hopes every morning for the next few days that he’ll see her again. He wants to get _her_ name this time around, and maybe a date while he’s at it, but he keeps missing her. Besides the fact that she has a dog and she likes to run, the only other things that he knows about her are that she lives in the apartment next door and her dog likes to hang out on the small patio. But there’s something about her he’s drawn to, and he wants to find out what it is. 

* * *

 

It’s the dog that he thinks of a week later when he gets the reverse 911 call as he’s drying off after his shower. He’d cut his run short that morning because the smoke from the nearby wildfires had changed direction with the wind and was blowing into their part of town. Now, apparently, it isn’t only the smoke that’s being blown towards them, but the actual fires too, and he’s being forced to evacuate.

He gets dressed and quickly packs a few essentials into his rucksack. Since he doesn’t know how long he’ll be forced out, and the Navy doesn’t particularly care what your excuses are for not showing up in uniform, he packs for a few days. At least he doesn’t have to worry about packing up a ton of mementos. He simply grabs the snapshot of his late mother that’s tucked into the mirror frame, puts it in the pocket of his hoodie, and makes his way towards his door.

That’s when he hears barking coming from outside.

Moving even more quickly out his front door and pulling it tight behind him, he stops at the next door to the left and knocks. His shirtsleeves are pulled down over his hands and his thumb is tapping impatiently on the door frame. Yup, just as he thought. She isn’t home.

He can’t just leave the dog there. _Dammit! How the hell am I gonna get that giant mutt over the fence?_

Next thing he knows, Logan finds himself clambering over the six-foot privacy fence that separates their small outdoor spaces. This is hardly the hardest climb he’s ever done – his mind goes to the walls he’d had to scale during OCS training – but the rose bushes with their thorny branches are making this particular climb very unpleasant.

“Ow! Fuck!” Logan growls as a long thorn digs into his palm and another tears a small hole in the leg of his jeans. He’s never going to be able to get back over to his side carrying a fifty-pound, slobbering dog. Butch clearly recognizes him, at least, because although he was barking and growling, jumping around the bottom of the fence while Logan was climbing over, he stops and butts his head against Logan’s leg once he gets a whiff of his hero. Logan looks around and moves to the patio door, hoping by some miracle that Butch’s owner is irresponsible and has left it unlocked.

No such luck, but the lock isn’t terribly solid either. Logan shrugs and figures if it’s a choice between letting her dog burn or fixing a broken lock, she’d probably opt for the lock. He unties the leash that’s affixed to a ring in the wall and tugs the dog towards the door. Bracing his feet and setting his shoulders, Logan gives a good yank and sure enough, the lock snaps and the door slides open.

It’s now well over half an hour since Logan got his initial call to evacuate to the local high school, so as much as he’s curious to check out the four wigs displayed on mannequin heads on the credenza, the zebra fur jacket thrown over the back of the couch or the black and white collage of photos pinned up to a giant white board on the wall of the dining area, he doesn’t dawdle. He closes the patio door behind him, throws a nearby broom into the rail to hopefully prevent anyone from taking advantage of the broken lock and heads out the front door.

He really hopes she won’t be pissed that he’s just broken into her apartment. Not only would he be out what he’s sure would be an excellent date, but the Navy and his CO would certainly not appreciate him getting arrested for a B&E over a dog.

* * *

The air in the gym smells of a weird mélange of sweat socks and coffee. Plastic chairs are scattered haphazardly across the reflective wooden floor, some gathered into groups and others sitting solitary around the edges. Along one wall runs a set of bleachers. A plastic folding table supporting a giant coffee carafe and a stack of Styrofoam cups is set up near the double doors.

It’s two hours later, and Logan finds himself sitting on an uncomfortable bleacher bench in a smelly gym with a bulldog snoring at his feet, berating himself for even considering doing what he did for someone he’s said all of three sentences to. What the hell had he been thinking? His shrink would say he’s exhibiting his hero complex again. Dick would tell him that he’s trying to get laid. His head is telling him that he’s a cocky bastard, and they’d probably both be right.

From his perch, Logan watches the Red Cross volunteers stationed behind the table greet a young family who has just arrived with a wailing baby. He groans. The gym is rapidly filling up with people and animals, and the noise is already giving him a headache. He looks down at the bulldog snoozing on the bench below him, thankful at least that he isn’t contributing to the din. He leans his head back against the wall behind him and closes his eyes. _What were you thinking, you idiot?_ A refrain of that last word is on repeat in his head.

“You want to explain how it is that my dog is here sleeping at your feet?”

Arms and legs flailing, Logan jumps about six inches and clunks his head against the concrete wall. “Argh! Jesus!”

The girl is standing two rows down, hands on her hips and eyebrows raised in challenge. She’s already slight in stature, and the fact that she’s standing so far below him just exacerbates her lack of height. The whole picture would make her look about fifteen years old except that she isn’t dressed the way any fifteen year old he knows dresses, and he grew up in Neptune: the land of no morals!

Her blond hair is teased several inches high and shoulder-wide, set with so much hairspray that he’s sure moving one hair would force the whole thing to lift as one piece. Her lips are bubble gum pink, and her eye shadow is a glittery blue. The dress she’s wearing has so little fabric, Logan isn’t sure it can even be called a dress. Her boobs—well, needless to say, everything is on display. In one hand she’s holding three-inch platform boots that clearly would be up to her knees had she been wearing them. There isn’t a guy in the place who isn’t staring and a woman who isn’t glaring.

Snippets of random scenes he’s witnessed float through his memory, suddenly coalescing into a coherent picture:

A balding man in a Walmart brand beige jacket and cords he’d seen when coming back from the base one night who shouted “Who’s your daddy?” when she opened her door at the knock.

Another guy who’d been around a few times, suit and tie and sports coat slung over his shoulder. Logan had overheard her calling him ‘Papa Bear’ as she invited him inside.

A tall man in a cheap suit and carrying a briefcase passing him as he was getting his mail. When she’d opened her door to him, she’d asked him how he was tearing himself away from his girls at the Seventh Veil to come and see her.

The wigs and coat in her apartment.

As all the pieces slide into place, Logan’s disappointment lands like a brick in the pit of his stomach. _She’s a hooker?!_ He knows that they haven’t really spoken, but never in any of their interactions did he ever get the impression that she is a hooker. And he knows his hookers. He’d never actually – well… But Navy men in foreign countries tended to attract all kinds of women and he thought his radar was better than _that_.

Logan is the first one to admit that his own past is nothing to be proud of, but there is no way that he could date someone who slept with other men. Even if it _was_ out in the open. He’d had enough of that in his past relationships, thank you very much.

She’s watching him with narrowed eyes but then he sees the realization of her appearance come over her. She shrinks in on herself slightly and crosses her arms to provide a little cover. Face pink, she mutters, “Well? Why is Butch with you? I’ve been screaming at some cop for the last ten minutes trying to get him to let me go to my apartment because I thought he was there! And I don’t remember giving you a key.”

Logan raises an eyebrow and says drily, defaulting to uncontrollable sarcasm to cover his disappointment, “I broke in. Butch is a lousy watchdog, by the way. Must be used to strange men in your place.” His eyes flick unbidden to her clothes.

She appears to grow two feet as her anger explodes. “You jackass! You don’t know anything about me! You’re sitting there, with MY dog, gotten illegally from MY apartment, and you’re judging me? Especially considering what YOU do? Fuck you!”

Guilt washes over him. He’d learned a long time ago not to judge other people. He’s met all kinds, from the 09er brats he’d grown up with, each having their own hidden cross to bear, to the many recruits using the Navy as the last resort for a life spiraling out of control. Who is he to attack her?

Shamefaced, he hangs his head. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. You’re right; I don’t even know you.”

Logan hands the leash to her without making eye contact, feeling even more stupid now than he did before. “Here. He was outside. I checked if you were home, and when you didn’t answer, I jumped the fence. I had to break your patio door lock to get us back out.” Stone-faced, he reaches into is wallet and grabs a few bills, handing them to her. “This should cover the repair. My mistake.” When she doesn’t reach for the money, he shrugs, drops the bills next to the dog and starts to climb down the bleachers.

Before he gets too far, he hears her call out, “Wait! Don’t go!” He stops and turns in time to see her take a deep breath. “Look, I was worried about Butch, and I couldn’t go home to change, and this –” she gestured to indicate her whole demeanor, “—is what you got. But thank you. For taking the time to get Butch; thank you.”

_Well, I_ did _figure she was feisty_. Logan nods briefly and gives her a small smile. “You’re welcome. But, um, here, maybe you want to —? ” He shrugs out of his hoodie and tosses it to her. “If you think I was an asshole, you probably don’t want to talk to that lady down there who looks about ready to come over here and give you shit for turning her husband into a blithering idiot.”

 

She scans the crowd and takes note of the daggers all the wives are shooting her way while she pulls on the hoodie gratefully. “I guess I should take it as a compliment that you think that I’m actually a hooker,” she laughs wryly, and shakes her head. “It means that at least the getup is legit. Good to know, since last night turned out to be a bust.” She sinks down onto the bench and rubs her face with her hands, smearing her makeup, which does nothing to improve the impression she’s making. “God, I can’t believe it’s not even nine in the morning.” She looks back up at him.

“I’m a private investigator. I was working a case last night, trying to trap a guy whose boss thinks is using the company expense account to pay for hookers. He never turned up, which also didn’t help my mood. Sorry.” She shrugs.

Logan stands dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open. “Seriously?”

She laughs at his reaction. “Yup, since high school. Teenaged private eye. Trust me, I know how dumb that sounds.” She tilts her head up at him and smirks. “My dad used to be sheriff and when he—” she cuts herself off and frowns. “Uh, when he stopped being sheriff, he got his PI license and opened an agency. He taught me everything I know.” She sticks out her hand toward him to shake. “Veronica Mars, Mars Investigations, San Diego Division.”

 

Logan stares at her hand for a second before reaching out to shake it. Incredulous but relieved, he raises his eyes to hers and is unable to look away despite the garish eye makeup, holding on to her hand a beat too long. He sees her smile and glance down to their hands still moving up and down. “So, what, you’re hiding your alter ego? The superhero doesn’t want to give out his real name? Can I at least get your stage name?” Logan looks at her quizzically, so she adds saucily, “Well, you bust a helluva pole dance. I’ve seen Magic Mike, Dallas.”

Logan begins to laugh and finally releases her hand. “My name’s Logan. Logan Echolls.”

“Nice to meet you, Logan Echolls. What’s so funny?”

He sits down next to her, trying to get control of himself but failing. “I was right, you were watching!”

“What?” Veronica is looking at Logan as though he’s gone crazy.

“When I was working out in my yard. I saw you watching me, so I thought I’d make it worth your while.” Logan’s laughter slows to a chuckle. “I’m not a stripper, Veronica. I’m in a naval aviator.” As he says it, he sits up a little straighter and puffs out his chest. He’s earned the right to brag about his job just a little.

It’s Veronica’s turn to look amazed. “Really? _Really_ really? Those dog tags are real?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Logan salutes her smartly.

 

A small fire ignites just below Veronica’s navel. They’d been flirting for days, but she’s been trying to smother the flame ever since she’d seen his performance in the yard. Now, all the excuses she’s been telling herself for why she could never date him melt away with the heat infusing every part of her. She hopes she sounds flirty and not desperate when she tilts her head and asks, “So, do you look as hot playing beach volleyball with your copilot as you do spinning around a pole?”

“Please, not the Top Gun references! Anything but those!” Logan groans, but his eyes twinkle. “But yes.” He smirks, one eyebrow raised. Veronica is certain that he’s inviting her to find out how hot he is for herself.

She returns his look with a heated one of her own for a long moment before deciding to take it down a notch. This is their first real conversation, and it’s getting a little out of hand for such a public location. She shifts herself into a more confortable position, and the movement breaks the spell they’ve both fallen under.

“So? What does the Navy call you?”

Logan smiles, the change in his countenance seems to acknowledge her attempt to lighten the mood. “Well now, that’s a long story, and we do need to save _something_ to talk about for the first date.” He reaches into his rucksack lying nearby and pulls out a deck of cards from a side pocket. “You play poker?”

Veronica’s eyebrow cocks. She smiles internally at his assertion that there will be a date in their future, but he’s getting a little too cocky and she wants to make him work for it a little more. Instead of acknowledging his indirect invitation, she grabs the deck out of his hand. She fans out the cards between them on the bench, sweeps them up in one fluid motion and begins shuffling. “OK, flyboy, how’re these odds? If you win, I don’t charge you for B&E. If I win, you take me to dinner. You in?”

The look of delight on his face is answer enough, but she pauses, card in her hand ready to deal, and waits until he speaks.

“All in.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my crew for taking my first version of this and turning it upside down to make it, I hope, better. And thanks for helping me find a name. Thanks as always to BryroseA for her mad beta skillz.


End file.
